Van Helsinki: Before the Storm
by nototter
Summary: Van Helsinki's last case before the Loren Case arrived.
1. Chapter 1

He was tired. Dog-tired. The door-handle under his hand felt slick with his sweat. He twisted it once half round, and at the same time stumbled into his hotel room, as if breaking in while drunk. There was nobody inside. Sophia must still be out. He quickly checked his corners, and then the hand which had slipped inside his jacket and grasped his gun was retracted. As he turned to shut the door, he checked the well-lit hotel corridor. Nothing. The stumble was a trick he had picked up from an ex-colleague. 'Always be ready, never look it' had been his motto. A message to live by, as far as Van Helsinki was concerned. Closing the hotel door, Van turned the lock, musing about how flimsy the wood was. He stood a moment, listening. Nothing. Van turned away from the door and sloped away over to his wardrobe. He shrugged off his sweaty longcoat, half-hanging it on the provided hotel hangar, then instantly had to stoop and retrieve it as it slipped off, and replace it on the wire frame. Van also removed the shoulder holster he wore underneath, and took out the Glock 19 inside. He released the magazine, cleared the firing chamber, then stashed the pistol under his bed. The holster he threw over a chair, and covered with a towel, then, frustratedly, with the movements of somebody obliged to do something involving extra effort, he retrieved and hid it more professionally, among the slats of his bed. Van bent down and took off his ankle holster, with the Baby Browning still inside, then placed the whole package inside the wardrobe, and taped it there. He stood for a moment, and again cocked his head and listened. Nothing once more. Van finally seemed to relax. He crossed to the single chair, and sat in it. A deep sigh erupted from his lungs. The detective could feel the sweat all over him. His eyes felt heavy. He shook himself a few times, tried to pull his sticky shirt away from his body, then got up and crossed to the sink next to the door, pouring himself a cold drink of water from the pitcher. He stopped, once again, to listen. Nothing.

That was Nothing far too many times.

Van put down his drink slowly. Admittedly, it was late, but this was a busy hotel. Someone should be up, moving, watching TV. Nobody was. No sound echoed in the corridors of the third floor. Van shook off his fatigue quickly and urgently. He picked up the mug again, sniffed the contents, then took a long deep swig of the cool clean water within, and then waited a few moments. Soon enough, he heard the patter of slippered feet. Lots of slippered feet outside his door. Van reached across and picked up his mug again. The pattering stopped by his door. A pause, then the door clicked open as a keycard was swiped, and the handle turned. A hand, holding a suppressed Browning Hi-Power, hove into view. Its holder seemed to be trying to work out where Van might be in the room, so as to get the drop on him instantly. Van waited no longer. He swung the mug down, knocking the Browning-holding hand downwards with it, and at the same time stepped sideways, trapping the pistol under his right arm. Van glimpsed a sea of black balaclavas and suits in the corridor behind his first assailant, then he smashed the body of the mug into the face of the man in front of him. The pottery smashed, leaving Van with the handle. He wasted no time in jamming this into his assailant's eyes. The would-be assassin howled and staggered backwards into his colleagues, dropping the gun outside the door. A second goon stepped forward, lowering his gun, and Van leaned as far back as possible and shut the door on the arm, leaning on it for a moment to grab the pistol from the man's trapped and nerveless fingers. It was a USP Compact. Van had used these before. That made it easier. He emptied half the clip through the door where he judged at least one of the assailants was standing. A smash of wood followed by a cry of pain told him his mark was found. Van rolled forward past the door just in time to avoid the return fire, which shattered much of the remaining hotel door. It sounded as if someone outside was using an SMG.


	2. Chapter 2

Van Helsinki looked around for something to bar the door with, and shoved the one chair into the way. A terrific banging told him it wouldn't last long. He needed a masterplan, and he needed it soon. Van suddenly turned to his bed. He ran to it, ignoring the frantic hammering at the door and the occasional shots coming through, and slid underneath, pointing the USP at the door where his attackers would come from. He waited. The door flew off its hinges in a flurry of blows and shots, and then three pairs of feet appeared in view. Four of them moved over to the window, which Van had left open earlier to try and let the night air in. Van heard them discussing his escape. He aimed at the remaining pair closest to him, the man with the well-soled slippers, and let fly with a few shots, shattering an ankle and bringing his assailant to the ground. Van fired another well-aimed shot as he hit the ground, into his right shoulder, forcing him to drop his gun. The two men at the window turned at the noise, and Van emptied another two of the USP's rounds towards them, hitting one. The remaining man sprayed the top of the bed with pistol fire, but failed to hit Van, though one of the splinters kicked up by the bullets passing through the frame grazed his right arm. The man attempted to take cover behind the ruined chair which had been blocking the door. Van took aim, and as the man peered round to try and detective Van, he was shot in the side. The would-be assassin fell over, dropping his weapon in pain. Van squirmed out from under the bed. The man made a weak effort to reach his gun, but Van stepped over to him and stood on his arm. He aimed the USP at the defeated foe's chest, and squeezed the trigger five times. It turned out he only actually had one round left. It was all he needed. Van peered into the corridor. It was empty for now, at least. He reached back under his bed to remove his holster and Glock, strapped both on, took the Baby Browning from his wardrobe, pocketing both gun and ankle holster, then quickly dropped the empty USP and took up the Browning from the other dead man. Van reached over to his longcoat and swung that over his shoulder. He made to go out of the room, to look for Sophia, but already he could hear drumming feet on the stairs. Van shoved the safety catch onto the Browning, and thrust it in his pocket, before drawing his Glock. Two men rounded the top of the stairs. At best, these were armed police with awkward questions, mostly about why five or six dead men were lying half-in and half-out of his room, and why he was armed to the teeth. At worst, this was enemy backup. Neither prospect appealed to Van. One aimed at the detective, and he waited no longer, dropping to one knee and firing one-handed, spraying the two men down. Another rounded the stairs and Van aimed at him too. Both pulled their triggers at the same time. The assailant's splintered off the door frame above Van's head, where he would be if he hadn't been kneeling. Van's round never fired. His Glock emitted a distorted click, and jammed on him. Van ducked back into the room. He had no time to work and clear the breech, instead dropping the useless weapon back into the holster, and racing over to the open window. Van looked down. A storey-long drop and then scaffolding awaited him. Van slid his feet over the sill hurriedly. He paused in the cold night air for a moment, then heard a door bang and the 'snap' of an MP5K being cocked. Van dropped from the window.

He in fact fell a floor and a half, missing the first set of scaffolding and instead landing heavily on the next level down. There was a dreadful crack, and a sharp pain raced through his right side. He thought it could be a broken rib, but he wasn't going to waste time speculating. Above him he heard the sounds of men rushing into his room. There was a lot of shouting, and the odd gun going off. These were amateurs, thought Van. One of them must have seen the open window or heard the crash, for he stuck his head out of the window. Ignoring the pain in his side, Van raised the Browning in his left hand and fired off another half-magazine or so at the window frame. He hit nothing but plaster and stone, but the fragments and small dust explosions as bullets smashed into the window sill and frame caused the man to withdraw back into the window. Van tried to get up, but succeeded only in rolling onto his front with a groan of pain. Above him, the shouting had collected into one cry of 'He's out the window!'. Van knew he was running out of time. He needed some desperate action, and he took it. Van fired from his front, expending his last bullets at the support structure of the scaffolding. As he had hoped, the quality of the scaffolding in this part of the world was not exactly top-notch. The wooden supports, some already degrading in the heat and strain, began to break. Van rolled back across onto his spine again, and fired between his legs at the other two wooden beams. They too cracked. Van only had time to grasp the platform beneath him before it crashed down another storey. Van cried out as the impact jarred his side again. He crawled to the edge of the platform, which was listing dangerously to one side, then slowly, painfully, rolled off the edge down the last half-storey and into a large rubbish skip below. The bags of trash muffled his fall, but even so he lay stunned and in shock for perhaps five to ten seconds before he could summon the strength to clamber out of the dumpster. He left the empty Browning pistol inside.


	3. Chapter 3

Van Helsinki dropped into a half-sprawl on the floor next to the skip. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered across the parking lot to his Porsche, parked nearby just for cases when something like this might occur. As Van neared the car, he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the keys, found them, and clicked the car open, falling against the bodywork in the same movement. He could feel his strength failing even as he lay there, one hand awkwardly screwed above him grasping for the driving seat handle. Van could hear the shouts of the gunmen from the hotel room, and knew that by now some would be on their way outside. He finally found the handle and pulled the door open beside him, then turned and half-climbed, half-crawled into the driver's seat. Van pulled himself upright, coughing like crazy now. Some of what came out was blood. That was not good. A broken rib or two was looking more and more likely. He needed a doctor. More pressingly, he needed to stop his pursuers. Van pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it into place to give him additional support sitting upright, though it dug into his bloodied side. The pain caused would at least keep him awake and out of shock for a time, he reasoned. Across the parking lot, he could hear the shouts and sporadic gunfire of his would-be killers. One small mercy seemed to be that, as unprofessional assassins from one organisation, they would likely would have come in one vehicle, and left it somewhere hidden. That gave him a small window of time if some went for their van or similar vehicle. In the event, it looked as if at least four of five had declined the van in the hopes of killing him before he left. Van could see the tactical lights on their guns swinging as they crossed the car park. He quickly reached into his pocket for the keys, but the seatbelt made it awkward to extract, and he lost precious seconds removing it and then inserting it into the engine, turning the key and waiting for the car to start. At the engine, the tac-lights across the parking lot began to swing violently as the holders broke into runs towards the sound. Van stamped on the accelerator just as the nearest broke the ten metre mark away from him. The car shot forwards, Van's control not helped by the jabbing pain in his side. A flurry of pistol and SMG fire rattled past, but at this range and with the assailant's lack of real training, the effect was minimal. Van aimed the Porsche for the exit. All he needed was to get out of the immediate area, then lie low and call for help. He had to leave his colleague, he had no choice. The small shack next to the exit helped his directional positioning. He sped the car, gunning the engine towards escape.

There was one thing Van hadn't planned for. Another gunman, experienced, the leader of this band of wannabe assassins. The men who had sent these petty thugs, who had armed them with high-quality submachine guns and provide them with his room number, had realised they might not be up to the job They had sent one of their best to try and deal with the problem. His name was unknown. The men working for him knew him as 'Vladimir', but this was not his real name; he wasn't even Russian. 'Vladimir' had stationed himself at the only exit, waiting just in case. When he heard the sound of the engine and the gunshots he could guess roughly what had occurred. 'Vladimir' stood up, brushed himself down, and took up the device sitting on the table beside him. He pushed the cap off, then pressed the button beneath with his finger. Did the detective really think that they didn't know which car was his? At about 30 metres from the gate, 'Vladimir' saw the car sudden slew sideways. The detective countered with a wheel jerk, but then the explosives in the back went off. The blast blew the side and back windows out and badly charred the seats. The Porsche twisted, and slowly slewed to a stop. The back half was little more than metal. 'Vladimir' took up the MP40 which had been lying beside him all the time, and stepped out into the cold night air. His weapon choice was unusual, but the gun he carried had been outfitted specially for him, loaded with custom hollow point-style rounds designed to twist and yaw in the body, but not exit. 'Vladimir' wanted every one of his kills to look like his handiwork. He approached the burned out Porsche, gun raised. A groan from below the steering wheel caught his attention. 'Vladimir' walked closer, cautious, attentive, gun raised. He sidled round the body of the car over to the driver's side, and then opened the door. Van's body flumped out of the side and slid to the floor. 'Vladimir' followed the line of decent with his gun, but the detective wasn't going anywhere. Van groaned at the slack seatbelt finally tightened, halting his downward sprawl. He looked up, dazed. 'Vladimir's' muzzle was the first thing he focussed on. He moaned again, made a wide grab for his holstered Glock, which failed, then just hung, looking at 'Vladimir' and trying to focus. 'Vladimir' waited a moment, then pulled a knife and cut the seatbelt holding Van into the ruined Porsche, letting him fall awkwardly to the ground with a 'crack'. The agent rolled Van over onto his front, eliciting another groan as the detective's injured rib pressed against the ground. 'Vladimir' pulled a set of zip-ties from a pocket and fastened Van's hands together. He then rolled the detective back over, and removed the Glock from its holster, pocketing it. As the frontrunners of the remaining would-be assassin's came running over, 'Vladimir' hauled Van to his feet. The first henchman to arrive pointed his P90 at Van. His finger flexed next to the trigger. 'Vladimir' shook his head. 'We leave him alive. For now'. As the rest of the goons arrived, clutching all manner of weapons, 'Vladimir' raised his voice. 'We got him. We're out of here'.


	4. Chapter 4

One of 'Vladimir''s henchmen, a man called Frank D'Urbino, watched with heated feelings. It was cold outside, and D'Urbino had begun to shiver. He was angry. Two of his friends had been killed inside the hotel room by the now captive and comatose Van, and now he had also been denied any chance at revenge. Frank hoped the pay was good. He had been promised a substantial sum for this, and had come from across the globe for it, bringing his local mob groups crème de la crème along with him. Now the five men who set out had been reduced to two, with two bleeding on the hotel carpet and another having perished in a car accident. D'Urbino turned to his neighbour, Manny, another of his mob 'friends', to complain. It was then he saw the red light. It hovered on the man to the side of Manny, who was unaware of its presence. In his heart of hearts, Frank knew what the light symbolised, but he didn't think fast enough to do anything but throw himself and Manny flat. A report rang out across the car park, and D'Urbino felt the warm splatter of blood from the disintegrating head of the 'red light man' as the round ripped through his head and kept going, eventually coming to rest in the side of one of the empty cars in the car park. The various mooks and henchmen threw themselves down, cowered, ran or fired wildly into the air. Even 'Vladimir' flinched, though he also realised if the shooter was smart they would have gone for him as the obvious leader. As he was still standing, either they were a lousy shot, couldn't see him, or were not experienced at the game. In any case, he didn't want to give them a round two. 'Vladimir' ducked, pulling Van with him behind the car. He dropped the MP40 so it hung from the sling around him, and drew his pistol, a Walther P38.

Beside 'Vladimir', Van stirred. The cold night air and pain from his wounds were just about keeping him awake, but the shooting had fully awakened him, at least for the moment. He felt the bite of the zip-ties on his hands, and the lack of drag or weight in his shoulder holster. He was in dire straits. About him, the various would-be assassins were lit by muzzle flashes from frantic submachine gun fire about the area, in the vain hope of hitting the hidden sniper. Van, without making his coming-to obvious, silently assessed the situation. He was stripped of his primary weapon, and bound, badly injured and fading fast from blood loss. He was surrounded by enemies, in a fairly open car park. His car was wrecked. On the converse, he was still up, still awake, still had his backup weapon, his enemies were distracted and he had his 'hidden sniper'. Van had hoped that their intervention would not be necessary, but it had seemed foolish not to make precautions, and these had paid off. Another sniper round shattered the skull of the man hiding behind the small exit shack. He collapsed. 'Vladimir' turned, and realised either the sniper was moving or there were more of them. Either way, he was no longer safe. He grabbed Van's collar and hauled him to his feet, pointing the Walther at him for extra motivation. The two sprinted across to another vehicle for cover. 'Vladimir' glanced into the window, and saw he could hotwire this model. He stood up hurriedly, gave the passenger window three or four good blows with his elbow, then ducked back down again.

Unlocking the door through the now-broken window, 'Vladimir' turned to Van. 'Don't even think about it' he said, then punched Van in the gut, close to his wounds. Van screamed out, and in that moment 'Vladimir' cut his zip-ties while fishing out a pair of handcuffs. He slapped one of the links onto Van's right arm, and then made to fasten it onto the seat back. Van tried to struggle, but in his weakened state it was no use. 'Vladimir' climbed into the car over him, and then fiddled with the engine, with Van hanging half-in and half-out of the passenger seat. The detective frantically tried to free himself, but it was no use. He instead scrabbled in his boot for the ankle holster, but the pain, and the dark, and the urgency, combined. Van couldn't extract it. He swore to himself, but 'Vladimir' heard and turned round. He grabbed Van, pulling him into the car, shutting the door, and punching the detective again to give 'Vladimir' time to unlock the handcuff, and then recuff Van with his hands in front of him. The captor then fastened the seatbelt, rightly calculating by the time Van was recovered enough to go for the release button, he would have started the car. 'Vladimir' finally heard the engine roar. He scrambled up into the driver's seat, and slammed the handbrake off. Putting the car into reverse, he shot it out of the drive. Behind them, the few remaining henchman had scattered, and the sniper appeared to be stuck trying to shoot 'Vladimir' without hitting Van.

Van realised this was it, his last chance of freedom. He waited until 'Vladimir' had got the car moving forwards, and until a shot from the sniper rang off the top of the car, causing 'Vladimir' to speed up. The car moved towards the exit. As it neared the shack, Van suddenly lunged forward and, with his handcuffed hands, grabbed the wheel and turned it towards him. The stolen car swerved into the very shack 'Vladimir' had been hidden in. It crashed into the wooden panelling and broke it, ploughing through and stopping halfway out of the other side. Without a seatbelt on, and without an airbag installed, 'Vladimir' was thrown half-out of the windscreen, hanging across the bonnet. Van also hung in his seatbelt, exhausted and unconscious.

Gradually, both enemies came to. 'Vladimir' squirmed across the bonnet, and slid out of the car. Van desperately pressed at the release button on the seatbelt until it gave way and he crumpled onto the dashboard. In front, he could see 'Vladimir' fumbling with his belt. Van bent down and groped again for his Baby Browning. The ankle holster proved as unreliable as it had before, but this time Van persisted, fumbling with chained hands and vision growing darker. Outside, 'Vladimir' found the Warthog compact pistol in the back of his jacket, and tried to draw it. The supposedly 'snag-free' draw was foiled by the ruins of his jacket back, which muffled his attempts. Van was still fumbling in his boot for the Browning. His fingers got the top, but the loss of blood had destroyed his coordination. Finally he managed to flip the pistol out, but dropped it into the car footwell. 'Vladimir' meanwhile had extracted his pistol, but the effort had cost him. He had lost less blood than Van, but his injuries were more severe. The assassin bled severely from a deep gash in his head. He stumbled and leant on the car bonnet. Van looked up, helpless, but as he did, his fingers brushed a wooden handle jutting out below the dashboard. Van pulled, and found himself holding a Mauser C96 in both handcuffed hands. He raised it slowly over the dashboard. 'Vladimir' saw the action. Until that moment, he had not known for sure that Van was armed, but that sight gave him strength from desperation. He raised the Warthog unsteadily. Still, Van fired first, but the round was not on target and simply ricocheted off the front of the car, ending up lodged in the ceiling. Vladimir held his gun in both hands, and lowered it. He wasted no time gloating. He still wasn't quick enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The gunshot smashed through 'Vladimir's' lower back, penetrated into his gut, and stopped there. The assassin fell over, gasping for air. Van tried to follow his path but his nerveless fingers instead dropped the gun, which slid down the car bonnet. A hand stopped it from falling. With the last of his strength, Van looked up. Sophia stood before him, holding another Baby Browning. Her black dress was torn about the leg, to aid her movement, and slung across her back was a sniper rifle, a Dragunov. Sophia's hair fell across her face, messily, but she didn't appear to be injured.

'I think you dropped this', she said. Van gave the ghost of a smile, then, as Sophia rushed over to him, he passed out into the refreshing, welcoming arms of his doting mistress, unconsciousness.

When he awoke, he was lying in a white hospital bed, in a white hospital room. Van tried to move his right arm, but it appeared to be restrained. He half-sat up, looking around, but the room was empty. Van tried to swing his legs out of the bed, but a dizzy fit sized him and lowered him back onto the bed. He lay there for perhaps two hours, images of the past few hours rolling over in his head. From the humidity in the room he estimated he hadn't left the country yet, though a border crossing wasn't completely out of the question. Van thought about the events which had gone down. All in all, the actual mission had been mostly successful. The villain in question was now in several pieces and the game had been won. What was not so acceptable to Van was the getaway. That had been a mess, no doubt about it. As was his custom, Van ran the events back through his head as best as he could remember. Normally he would analyse them, see what went wrong, but today it just made him feel dizzy again. Van rolled over onto his left side, cautiously avoiding the potentially broken ribs on his right, and fell into sleep far less fitful than he had any right to.

When he awoke, the position of the sun outside the window meant it was probably 2pm or so, though Van didn't entirely trust his own senses in this state. He felt better already. Someone had left a glass of water on the side. Van turned over. Normally, he would have been somewhat cautious about drinking, but he felt weak enough that if anyone had wanted to kill him, they could probably have simply walked over and smothered him with the very pillow he was lying on. Van drank deeply. It felt good to be able to practically _sense_ the cold, clear water trickling down the back of his parched throat. Much better than the bottled stuff he had been drinking at the hotel. Van lay back. Now, all he had to do was wait for the debriefing. All he had to do was wait for The Inspector.


	6. Chapter 6

The Inspector arrived, as he always did, quickly and loudly. He swept into the hospital room, swept everybody else out with ringing protestations and claims, then in one swift movement swept up a chair right next to the bed, as a councillor would with a patient, and sat upon it. The Inspector turned to Van.

'What happened?' he queried. Van sighed.

'It was going so well. The money was done, and Albulka was finished.' The Inspector fidgeted impatiently. His smart suit never looked quite right – as if he had rushed out of the door before his wife could tell him it was still slightly crumpled from the day before. He talked like he looked, hurriedly and as if he was never quite ready for what he said. He also permanently sounded annoyed at something.

'I know, I know, I've talked to him myself.' Van turned to face him.

'They'd bought out the hotel. All of it. Or at least they'd paid off everyone. Nobody did a thing when they came for me. Nobody except darling Sophia.' The Inspector nodded at this.

'I'm told she performed admirably.' Van half-chuckled.

'Don't give her too much credit. If she'd shot the leader first, she would have saved me one car crash.' The Inspector looked over.

'What exactly happened to you? You look like hammered shit.' Van gave his dry laugh, if you could call it that, again.

'Let me see. I fell out of a window, dropped three floors on scaffolding, landed in a rubbish skip, was shot at, punched, blown up, crashed, dragged about and then had to engineer my own car crash. Plus I nearly died.' The Inspector made a frantic yet somehow dismissive gesture with his hand, one Van couldn't fully read and said 'You've been through a lot.' Van looked up. 'I presume darling Sophia is as immaculate as usual?' The Inspector nodded. Van lay back on his pillow. 'I'll tell you one thing', he said. 'I am sure as fuck never using an ankle holster again. Damn thing nearly killed me. And did we get my Glock back?' The Inspector nodded.

'Yes, all your weaponry was recovered. Though I'll think twice before letting you use it again. That thing proved useless.' Van pulled a face.

'It jammed on me. First time ever. It jammed on me.' The Inspector nodded again. He was fond of nodding. 'We'll get you something better as a primary. And perhaps as a backup too.' Van shook his head. 'The Baby Browning was fine. It's the holster that screwed me over. Though I might carry a different gun just in case next time.' The Inspector smiled, for the first time since entering. 'You do that, Van. You do that. In fact, take more than one.' Inspector Someone-Who-Is-Not-David-Bowie stood up and turned to leave.

'I'll see you in three weeks Van. Three weeks. There have been…stories. And we got a call. Do you remember Esme?'

'The ex-psychiatrist. Never liked her.'

'Well, she did say you were crazy. And meant it. But that's beside the point. We've had…a call. From her. She needs help with something. Or rather, her husband does…I'll…let you sort it out. It's gonna sound crazy, even for you.' Then the Inspector was gone, with the same nervous energy that characterised all of the Inspector's actions. Van rolled back in his bed and sighed. Whatever came next would be interesting, that was certain.


End file.
